Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

Stelig turned away from the massacre. His eyes welcomed the change of scenery. “Let’s go. Maybe I can get some answers out of him. Shit, I wanna know why he did this. Why he may have single-handedly fucked up my career.”

The man sits in the corner, not looking at anything in particular, softly humming. He does nothing else all day except sit in the corner and hum.

He doesn’t speak with the others, not because he hates them, but because that would mean disrupting his glorious hymn.

Even now, as the black man glides the funny looking hairy thing around him, he doesn’t stop humming. Like a humming-bird, which is what the black man calls him.

“Hey there, humming-bird. How you going today?”

The man smiles quickly, never ceasing his song, never missing a beat. He can’t miss a beat, or else he’ll lose his stillness.

The black man, who wears the same blue uniform every day, continues pushing the funny hairy thing back and forth, around and around. “And how am I doing, you ask? Well, I can’t complain. The ticker’s still beating and the paychecks keep on coming. And I have wonderful friends like you to keep me company.” The black man chuckles.

The man stares at nothing and keeps on humming. He likes the black man. The black man likes his humming. Unlike certain other people. But that, like other things, he keeps to himself. He never tells his secrets to anyone.

“I say, you ever going to change your song, humming-bird?” The black man says. “Doesn’t matter. Me, I don’t mind. Shit, I don’t mind at all. It’s comfort, isn’t it, humming-bird? Familiarity. Me, I like comfort as I get older an’ older. With my wife gone and the kids all grown up and living their lives, comfort’s all I have. Ain’t that right, humming-bird?”

The man smiles. The black man always talks about his wife gone and his kids living their lives. Every day he talks about the same thing. And every day he stops pushing that funny hairy thing while he talks. But the man doesn’t care. He just looks at nothing and keeps on humming.

And hopes the bad man hears him.

He hasn’t heard a peep out of the bad man for awhile. They might still be punishing him — or he could be sleeping. But even in sleep, he knows the bad man can hear him. And that makes him smile. His secret.

“Yeah, my life ain’t too bad, humming-bird. I got this job. Hell, it don’t pay too well and you’d be disgusted at some of the things I have to clean up. ‘Specially in the bad wards. Psycho ward’s the worst. I’d give up half my paycheck if I was allowed to only clean this ward. ‘Cause this here ward’s the best. It’s clean, quiet and I have people like you to talk to.”

The man knows what’s coming up next. He’s heard it a million times. But he likes hearing this part. It makes him the most happy.

“Unlike that psycho ward. Shit. It gives me the creeps every time I go inta that ward. All those eyes watching me, all those devil minds wondering how they’re gonna get me. They piss and shit and spew and leave their spunk all over the floor, just to spite me they do. I’m convinced of it. Just to make my life hell. I’m almost seventy, humming-bird. I don’t got no time to be worrying about some nutter coming at me with god-knows-what and killing me.”

The black man stops to take a breath. He’s almost seventy, and he hasn’t got the wind in him like he used to. Not like back when the man first arrived here and the black man was young. Well, younger than he is now. But he’s always liked the man’s humming. Never told him to stop it like those men in white.

“But, I need the money. That’s a fact, humming-bird.”

The black man sighs, grips the funny hairy thing and begins to push it along the floor. “Still gets me that you people up here are put in the same place as those crazy nutters down there. Shit, you’re no more dangerous than my old Grandma used to be, God rest her soul. And she was the nicest lady in the world.” The black man shakes his head and makes a funny clacking sound with his mouth. “See ya humming-bird. Thanks for listening.”

The black man walks away.

The humming-bird continues to hum.

The man’s aware of things going on around him. They think he’s simple or something, but they don’t know. He knows about the large man in white doing the business with one of the women in white, the women who wear those funny hats. He also knows the large man in white has a ring on his finger, just like the ring the man used to have, only now it’s gone — taken from him by the men in white when he first arrived at this place. He knows about the small man in white that does the business with the drooling woman who lies in bed all day. He does the business when it’s dark and there are no other men in white around. He also knows that the bad man hates his humming. Always has. But these things he keeps as secrets. He’s a humming-bird, and humming-birds never talk, just hum.

The man’s good at keeping secrets. Everyone says so. That’s why he’s here. The big policeman who had yelled and hit him thought so. Said he’d make a good spy — doesn’t give nothing up, he had said. Wanted to know about Julie and Sam and little Debbie. But that was the man’s business. Not the policeman’s.

He didn’t tell his secret to the old doctor, either. The old doctor with all his wrinkles and white clothes. The doctor didn’t hit him, but the man still didn’t tell the old doctor about Julie and Sam and little Debbie. The man knows about Julie and Sam and little Debbie. Of course he knows about them, but it’s his secret, and that’s that.

The man hears the voice of the bad man.

It makes the man excited — although he doesn’t express that excitement outwardly. He continues to sit in the corner and hum, although he does move his head slightly to the right, and looks at the hole in the wall.

It’s through this hole that he hears the bad man. His voice is faint and tinny, like he’s hearing the bad man’s voice through a radio box. The man gazes at the crisscross of the metal plate that covers the hole, and hums. Softly, gently, lyrically. Hums and hums. He hums to the hole, pretends it’s Julie and that the crisscross is her smiling face. Pretends that she likes his humming and that she is smiling and asking for more. Yes, that’s what the man likes to imagine when he hums into the hole — his wife sitting there loving his voice and his humming, not telling him to stop it, stop that infernal humming or else she’s going to leave him. Thinking those bad thoughts makes him angry and loses his stillness. That’s why he tries not to think those bad thoughts and instead pictures Julie smiling and loving his humming.

“Stop it! Stop that fucking humming!”

It’s the bad man.

“Stop it. Get out of my head!”

Five years. Five years the man has been humming into the hole. Five years the bad man has been telling him to stop it.

The man smiles. Continues to hum.

It’s his biggest and best secret. No one knows. Not even the bad man knows. No one knows except him. And maybe the black man. The man’s not too sure, but he thinks the black man might know about it. But that doesn’t matter, because the black man likes his humming.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you! Stop it. Stop it!”

The distant voice sounds even angrier than yesterday. And he was furious yesterday. So furious that he had to be gagged and put in restraints. The man had heard it all through the hole in the wall. It had made him smile, almost laugh. But he can’t laugh, because that would break his humming.

The man doesn’t know why, but it seems only the bad man in the bad ward can hear his humming through the hole in the wall.

“I’m just going to ignore you. Hmmm… hmmm… see I can hum too. Hmmm… shut the fuck up!”